


11:40

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Childbirth, M/M, Mpreg, Stancest - Freeform, Traumatic birth, Unplanned Pregnancy, graphic birth, how is babby formed, it is what it sounds like, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: “Shit.” Stan wipes at his mouth. He leans heavily back against the sink, feeling light-headed all over again as he stares at the indicator that’s started to shake in his trembling hands. “No. No, no,no,shit, fuck, what the fuck, what thefuck!What the FUCK!”Stanley discovers, much too late, that the journal wasn't the only thing his brother left behind when he disappeared through the portal that fateful day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another time, in cased you missed the tags: THIS CONTAINS MPREG. MALE PREGNANCY. GRAPHIC BIRTH SCENE. A GUY. GIVING BIRTH. GET OUT NOW OR NEVER, FOLKS
> 
>  
> 
> Mpreg, not crack. Stanley-centric, mentions of Stancest, graphic birth scene. Allusions to past prostitution, past rape, trigger warning for traumatic birth and one brief mention of abortion. Gratitutous swearing. Magical hemaphroditism, because MAGIC. Set directly after ATOTS. At a certain point begins to sound like non-con even though there’s only one party involved. 7,000+ fucking words of badly written angst excuse me while I go jump in a ditch and die

“It’s a pain in the butt, that’s what it is.” Stanley takes a cautious sip of his mug of warm milk, and, when he doesn’t immediately start gagging five seconds later, decides it’s safe enough to drink. He downs half of it gratefully, ravenously, then huddles over the countertop in misery. “I can barely keep anythin’ down, I can’t do my work because I constantly feel like I’m gonna pass out. This blows.”

Susan hums as she continues drying the dishes. “Well, I suppose that explains why I haven’t seen ya around for breakfast lately. Congratulations, honey. Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A… a what?” Stan says, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Your baby, silly.” Susan’s beaming that idiotic, empty smile of hers. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’ recognize mornin’ sickness when you had it. It’s obvious.”

Stan stares at her. “Men don’t get pregnant, Suzie. We kind of _can’t_.”

“Oh.” Susan’s smile drops off her face. She looks genuinely disappointed for a moment, but then she grins again and resumes her activities. “Well! Then I guess that’s one heckuva stomach bug ya got there! You take care’a yerself, handsome. Drink’s on the house. Oh, and it’s Susan, by the way. I know I’ve mentioned it a couple times already, but - ”

“Thanks, honey pot.” Stan downs the rest of his drink and pushes away from the counter before she can ask him out again for the fifth consecutive time in a row. He gives her a back-handed wave as he walks out the door of the Greasy Diner. “Catch ya later!”

x x x

_It’s busted, that’s what it is._

He chants it over and over like a prayer as he tosses it out and repeats the procedure on a second.

The results are the same.

“Shit.” Stan wipes at his mouth. He leans heavily back against the sink, feeling light-headed all over again as he stares at the indicator that’s started to shake in his trembling hands. “No. No, no, _no_ , shit, fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck_! What the FUCK!”

It’s fucking positive.

x x x

When Susan had told him she thought he was having a baby he’d just dismissed it. He’d gone straight home, promptly threw up the milk he’d drank, then collapsed on his bed and passed out. When he woke up the next day he thought nothing of the conversation they’d had last night. It was Susan. It was probably a stupid joke, she’d been making thoughtless, nonsensical comments like she always did, he didn’t dwell on it.

He recovered from his apparent stomach bug and immediately went back full swing into running the Murder Hut on extra hours to cover for the period he’d been ill, then dedicating the rest of his waking hours - if he’d had any left, after running the Hut for nearly an entire day straight - to reading up on the material needed to restart the stupid portal. It’s the usual. Run the hut, try to magically understand physics and decode Ford’s stupid spy code, crash. Rinse and repeat.

He had been slightly confused one morning when his regular work pants wouldn’t zip up all the way. Huh. Well, he’s been eating late right before sleep lately. Something about metabolism, whatever. He’d shrugged it off, slipped into a larger pair, and went about his day as normal. Again, he didn’t think about it.

It’s a number of months later and Stan’s just finished the last of his Summerween tours. He drops into his favorite armchair and groans at the immediate relief that taking the weight off of his feet brings him. _“God.”_

He’d spent so many hours putting up the decor on and around the house (a lot of it had been DIY since the raw materials cost less than the prepaid crap they sold at Superstore) and making sure they were properly maintained every night. Then roughly the same amount of hours walking hundreds of tourists through, and telling the same made up bullshit over and over again, with the same enthused theatrics. He hasn’t gotten a chance to rest all day. His back is killing him, his feet are swollen and numb. He still needs to go through the cash register to calculate exactly how much profit he’s made, but he knows he’s definitely well  past breaking even.

He cracks open a cold beer and takes a long, sweet swig before sighing loudly in contentment. “Worth it.”   

Something _moves_ inside him.

Stan drops the beer and gives a short scream of terror.

He stares down at his stomach, wide-eyed, hands gripping the armrests tightly, the beer can rolling away over the floor and probably causing a mess.

That had NOT been gas. Stan’s a gassy person, he’ll admit it. Drinking Pitt Cola like it was water had a tendency to do that.

 _That_ was a something that was most definitely very solid and very _alive_.

His first thought is parasite. Some weird bullshit from the woods. Hell, if the woods had tiny cougars and giant butterflies, he doesn’t see why it’s not possible for him to have swallowed something that eventually turned into a giant tapeworm inside of him. (Except he’s still pretty fat, so.)

His second thought is, _oh, haha, Summerween. Horror. I get it!_

It moves again and Stan flinches visibly. So it’s _not_ his imagination. He’s starting to feel a little queasy. His hands stay on the armrests where they’re fisted into the covers. He doesn’t want to touch it. Not yet. He can feel it just fine without his hands, thank you, and oh jesus, what is it?! What’s happening to him?!

Twenty more seconds pass uneventfully and Stan starts racking his brains in a frenzy. He goes through all that he’s done recently, tries to recall anything odd that might have stood out. He thinks about how he’d felt more “gassy” as of late but without anything to, er, pass for it. He thinks of how he’s been achy in more places than usual, of how quickly he’s been getting tired even though he’s been doing the same shit he always has. He thinks of That One Time that turned into A Couple More Times where he’d awoken at ass o’clock in the night to make himself a tuna and mayo and Reese’s sandwich because it’d sounded like a good idea. And then ate them.  

He thinks of the time his pants didn’t fit and then stopped fitting altogether. He thinks of when Susan had asked him if he was -

It’s like he’s fallen into a vat of ice water.

“ _You gotta be shittin’ me,_ ” Stan says.

He puts both his hands on his stomach where he’d felt the movement. He’s sitting up now, tense, almost ready to bolt up from the chair if need be. He’s breathing fast, nearly hyperventilating. Hah. Pregnant. Right. Maybe he’s crazy. He’s gotta be. He’s a man! Men don’t get pregnan -

It kicks him.

Then again, for good measure. And this time, Stanley _knows_ for sure that it’s _a fucking baby kicking him_ , because he remembers a time (a long, long time ago, when things had been alright) when he’d felt his baby brother Shermie through his mother’s stomach, and it’d felt like this. Except a lot less internal.

“Mother _fucker!_ ” Stanley yells.

x x x

He drives out to buy the pregnancy kits. There are probably tire marks across the park lot.

He comes home. He pisses on them. The double stripes of pink don’t fade away to one. He retches into the toilet.

_“How. The fuck?!”_

Okay, he might not have finished high school, but he knows he passed basic sex ed. _Nobody fails fucking basic sex ed._ Not even Stanley Gets-F-In-Everything Pines.

Girls got pregnant. Boys did the impregnating. Not the other way round. And yet, here he is, with a stomach full of baby.

He keeps waiting for someone to bust through the bathroom door to scream, “Surprise!”, keeps searching the bathroom for the giveaway led light of a hidden camera. Nothing.

“This can’t be happening. This can’t… jesus. Jesus _christ_.”

Now that he knows for sure what it is, his stomach feels like a dead weight. It feels like it’s sticking out for the entire world to see. It’s like he has a heavy, round anvil transplanted beneath his skin and sitting over his intestines, and this is probably why he’s been pissing so goddamn much lately but oh well at least it isn’t cancer, fuck, it’s a fucking baby! What is he going to do with a fucking _baby_?!

The questions batter him relentlessly as he hangs his head over the rim of the toilet seat, still dry heaving. How the hell did this happen? When is it due? How is he going to have it?! Where? What happens after he has it, assuming he doesn’t die trying to do the impossible since this WASN’T SUPPOSED TO EVER FUCKING HAPPEN IN THE FIRST PLACE? Whose is it?

Stanley starts laughing. Giggling, almost. It’s high-pitched and uncontrollable and right between Mental Fucking and Breakdown. He doesn’t really know what else to do. It’s absurd. Ridiculous. He has questions but no one to ask them to and like hell, like fucking _hell_ , is he going to ask Susan. The woman herself hadn’t even seemed to remember bringing it up in the first place; after that questionable night she’d spared him the same glances and the same manual wink she gave to everyone else.

The horrible thing is that he knows. He knows the answers to at least some of those questions which he really doesn’t want to think about, but needs to. The father, for one, is obvious. The day of its conception even more so. The father is a dick. The father is also gone, very literally, so, big help there. Stan does a quick rundown in his head with the ridiculous clues that have been thrown at him and estimates, assuming it’s a normal (he laughs loudly) pregnancy, that he’s about seven months along. Welp, that crosses abortion as an option off his list. On the plus side, he probably still has time to open the Hut for the fourth of July! One good thing to come out of this mess!   

Oh god. Oh no. He’s been drinking. That’s stopping now, obviously, even if he probably really could use more than one at this moment, but… How was he supposed to know?

Stanley groans and pulls himself away from the toilet. He thumps his head back against the bathroom cabinet and stares at the ceiling.

He doesn’t know why or how this happened to him outside of a vague hand wave of “MAGIC!”  Stupid crazy town with its stupid weirdness. It has to be. He’d have been knocked up several times before this if it wasn’t (by said father, or otherwise).

He’d thought the portal was nutjob talk until Ford disappeared into it. In trying to bring him back, Stan had to look through the rest of his journal, and it was nothing but full of equally insane, magic muck about Gravity Falls. Fairies. Aliens. Alternate dimensions. Monsters in the woods. Dream demons. Just the other day he’d had to beat off weird duck things that looked like they’d been living with the Corduroys. He still needs to dump salt over the welcome mat after closing up shop every night to keep the goblins from getting into the till. So, learning he’s up the duff? Shocking, yes. Unbelievable? Not completely.

But Stanley’s not the type to really sit around and dwell on things for too long. Overthinking things instead of actually doing something about them had always been Ford’s forte, not his. Now that he’s more or less completed freaking out about his situation, the facts Stan has in his hands are: one, he has roughly two months left to prepare for when this thing finally decides to check out of him. Two, he’s going to have to do it alone. In complete secrecy. Because going to a hospital for any of this isn’t an option to begin with. Nevermind the biological impossibility of his situation, he still has the whole legal issue with him impersonating Ford to deal with, along with his recent “death” with the staged car crash.

Add “how to have a baby” along with “Physics for Dummies”. Check.    

Fuck Ford for calling him down here. Fuck him for this mess. The portal, he means, of course. And fuck the portal.

Fuck Stan for screwing everything up in the first place.  

“I fucking _hate_ Gravity Falls,” he says loudly, to no one in particular.

There’s also the matter of the kid itself and what the hell he’s going to do about it, but… he’ll deal with that shitstorm later. Like maybe-after-it’s-born later. He already knows that keeping a kid in a situation as fucked up as his is never going to be a viable choice.

He punches the floor in anger and dislocates a knuckle.

x x x  

He works harder than ever during his hours bringing folks around the Hut and touring the woods surrounding it. It’s easier to throw himself into work. He also needs the money - more, now, in light of his recent reveal. (He’d gone into the grocery store and baulked at the price of baby formula and diapers. _That’s_ going to set him back…)

The knowledge that he’s lugging around more than a beer gut this time forces him to change some of his habits. He makes it a point not to skip meals if he can help it, or at least eat something more nutritional than cheap junk food and cold takeout. He rests when he can afford to instead of pushing himself. He might not have wanted the kid, but now that he knows it’s there, the most he can do for now is not further screw up its chances of developing properly.   

At night, when the Hut is closed, it’s back to textbooks and trying to figure out Ford’s equations. He fills his mind with math and numbers and as much science as he can handle and/or decipher until he’s ready to pass out from frustrated exhaustion.

Most nights, if he’s successful, he knocks out the instant he hits the bed and doesn’t rouse until the alarm goes off in the morning.

Tonight is not most nights. Stan pulls a pillow over his face and wills himself not to think about whether Ford’s still dead or alive, whether anything he’s doing is worth the effort, if he’s taking too long, if he’s ever going to succeed, if he should just give it up.

“Shut up. Not you,” he groans at the now familiar push of limbs in his stomach, and rolls over onto his side to alleviate the pressure on his spine. “Oh my _god_ , I just want to fuckin’ sleep, is that too much to ask?”

He’s not sure how he feels about the fact that the kid is Ford’s. It’s already complicated enough just trying to figure out how he feels about Ford himself.

He loves Ford. He knows this without a doubt. He can’t imagine not loving Ford. He also hates Ford because he’s a smart ass son of an arrogant prick who’s leagues better than anything Stanley Pines can do and also because he doesn’t know how things between them had gone so far south. Didn’t they _have_ something? What happened to them?

The resentment he’d carried with him from ten years past had taken a backseat the moment he’d arrived in Gravity Falls and seen how shaken up Stanford had been. Stanford had been… scared. And as long as he’s been alive, Stanley’s never liked seeing Stanford scared. They’re older now, no longer innocent kids, no longer emotional teenagers, yet still…

Somewhere between stepping a little closer to ask his brother what was going on with him and Stanford bringing him down into the basement to show him the universe portal, they’d caved. In Stan’s defense, Ford had started it. Something along the lines of it really being Stanley, _he really came_ , and then Ford’s got his hands all over him and with the way they’re kissing (they’re _kissing_ , holy shit) it’s pretty obvious Stanley hasn’t been the only one whacking it to fond memories for the better part of the last decade. It’s clear Ford’s missed him - _him_ , not anyone else - because those six-fingered hands had known exactly where to go that would make Stanley throw every last caution to the wind and… that had been it.

He remembers trying to tell Stanford to use a condom. (Because his sorry ass has been to jail and all over most of the streets and he hasn’t really had the time nor money nor the sense of self-care to get tested.) It didn’t happen, obviously, or it did and it broke; Stan doesn’t know which. It’d been over too fast too soon and he’d been too busy trying to keep all his emotions in check -  trying to relish the feel of Stanford in him, Stanford above him; his scent, his warmth, his face, the wonderful knowledge that Stanford had wanted  _him_.

And just as he’d thought he’d finally got his Ford back, Stanford draws away again, blames his poor judgement on his emotional state, and turns back into the asshole that later that same hour told Stanley to fuck off on a boat. The rest is history.

The kid performs a nausea-inducing roll inside him and Stan heaves a little in discomfort, rubbing at the site of activity until it settles. Stan doesn’t really have an opinion on kids. They’re easy to sell stuff to, he guesses. They’re alright if they’re not screaming and running around breaking things in the shop.

He’s never really pegged Ford to be a kids’ type of guy. Nerd always had his nose deeper in books than anything else.

He imagines succeeding at working the portal again, and bringing Ford back when he’s still huge. _Surprise! We’re dads! I guess that makes us both freaks now, huh? Ha ha!_ … yeah, that probably isn’t going to go over so well.

He wonders what Ford’s reaction to him would be, now. Somehow, “pleased” doesn’t seem like one of them.

It hits him suddenly just how incredibly _lonely_ he feels and this, _this_ is why he _hates_ thinking. Thinking of Ford makes him think of Ford not being here when he should be, which makes him think about why Ford isn’t here in the first place, which is _his_ fault, which is _why_ he’s lonely, which is -

“Fuck.” Stan’s not sleeping tonight. At least not (alone) in the bed. He pulls himself up with some difficulty and shuffles off to the living room to mindlessly watch the late night re-runs of The Duchess Approves.      

x x x

The good news is, Stan won’t need to play Operation on himself when the day comes, because, uh… Nature found a way.

Absolutely nothing about the thing that opened up behind his balls is natural.

It’s the real thing. He checked. He might not have dated much, but he’s been with enough women to know. He tries not to think of what the newest change to his anatomy makes him or how it happened and allows one night of debauchery with himself (alright, so, maybe more than one night), because fuck it. Why not. Everything was already going to shit. He has lemons? He’s making fucking lemonade.

He makes himself _damn_ good lemonade.  

“I could make good money with this,” he muses to his reflection. He can’t see past his stomach. (…well, he’s never really been able to see past his stomach since the whole “getting fat” thing started, long before This happened. It’s just harder than it was before, now.)

He doesn’t really mean it, of course. He never wants to return to that life again if he can help it. Still, if he was, though…

In any case, a progression of this nature in his situation really only meant one thing: it was going to happen soon. Until then, it would be a waiting game. Stan smooths out the creases in his jacket, squares his jaw, and heads down the stairs to begin the day’s work.      

x x x

Nothing out of the ordinary happens for the next week or two. He stocks up on supplies he might need when he goes into Lockdown. (It’s Lockdown, dammit. He doesn’t want to think of the other L-word.) The cashier doesn’t ask why an obviously single middle-aged man is buying diapers and baby formula; he tells her he’s experimenting with turning a section of the Hut into an all-purpose convenience stop anyway. He asks if she has a number because he’s lost his, and she laughs.

He contemplates talking to Susan again on whether she knows anyone else who’s been in his situation until he sees her trying to sieve a slice of pie into her coffee brew to make Pumpkin Latte.

He reads as much as he subtly can on the relevant topics in the relevant sections of the bookstore, but ends up picking a second hand First Aid Handbook from a used paperbacks store along with some other crap to line the shelves of the Hut’s gift shop instead. There’re a couple pages in the back of the handbook that somewhat summarize the details he’s read from the other books. It should suffice.  

The first time Stan feels a cramp, he’s smack in the middle of a tour. It feels like his innards are being grabbed and squeezed. Internally he’s alarmed; externally he finishes off the punchline of his current joke and bows cheekily to the crowd’s groans and polite laughter. He continues walking them through the Hut and delivering pun after practiced pun, silently willing the cramping to be false starts. They are; the cramps are gone by the time the tour ends at the gift shop.

Later that night, the same thing happens again and he’s unable to sleep. He paces the living room in long, nervous strides until they ease off. When they don’t resume, he heaves a sigh of relief and heads back to bed to try and make himself comfortable again.

When it happens for a third time, he doesn’t catch it right away. The thing about lugging around an 8 pound sack of baby all day is that it makes everything hurt. The dull ache in his lower back is a constant. He’s working solo - he hasn’t turned enough profits to be able to hire help, yet - and he’s almost always constantly on his feet, so if it feels like he hasn’t gotten enough sleep? That’s normal.

The previous cramps had come on suddenly. This one had snuck in along with his usual aches and pains and quietly simmered amidst them. Stan’s actually wondering why the hell this false pain is taking forever to go away even with all the walking he’s doing when it slides into place like a very loud puzzle.

He pauses mid-speech briefly, then continues talking through it. While the tourists are tittering amongst themselves and snapping photos, he pulls back his sleeve and checks his wristwatch.

He’d just started the tour; it’ll be at least half an hour until he’s done with them. The first thing he needs to do is to cancel the rest of the day’s arranged tours, then finish up with the current one. He cheerfully asks his customers to please wait and not touch anything lest they get cursed while he heads back into the shop to make a quick call.

He gets into the shop, closes the door behind him, and starts freaking the fuck out.

For about five seconds.

Then he puts on his business face and makes the necessary phone call down to Town Hall. _Hey, this is the Murder Hut. Yeah, someone dropped a really big log in the Outhouse again! It’s terrible! There’s liquids everywhere! Not the clean kind! Would he be open tomorrow? Oh, he’s not sure, but he’ll call in once he’s got things cleaned up and he can get tours going again. Would they put the signs up saying the Hut will be closed until further notice? Great! He’ll get Suzie to send them complimentary pancakes!_

He hangs up. He resumes losing his shit.    

 _Okay._ Stan puts his hands on the counter and breathes out, tries to calm himself down. _It’s not gonna happen immediately. In fact, it’s probably going to take hours. Dammit, that’s a day’s worth of money, just gone - shit, focus! Finish the tour. Half an hour. Done._

“Done,” he repeats out loud, just so he feels a little more confident. Fakes it until he makes it.

He puts the smile back on and resumes the tour. Thankfully, he’s memorized all his lines by heart by now, because he’s pretty distracted. About ten minutes after he’d placed the call to Town Hall he gets another cramp. It’s a slow, steady wave that radiates out from the throbbing in his back and around to his navel, slightly stronger than the last, and if he drags his words a little while speaking through it no one picks up on it. Stan notes the time on the watch and keeps moving.

He has another one another ten minutes or so later. The watch tells him it’s closer to nine minutes from the beginning of the last one. It’s picked up.

This is the slowest, most torturous tour group he’s ever taken on. That’s what it feels like, even though he ends up making it back to the gift shop in the half hour he’d allotted himself. He’s dying to just tell everyone to _get the fuck out of his shop, he’s closed, good day to you sir, and ma’am, and take your little gremlins with you!_ Instead, he parks himself behind the cash register and continues making small talk and idle chatter with his customers while he rings up their purchases, tries to hard sell them into leaving with a bigger basket than they’d started with, and weathers through another wave of slowly-sharpening pain.         

“The puma shirt, for sure,” he grins. “Although, maybe you should pick both. Just to be safe. Don’t want to be out of panther shirts when you really need one.”

 _THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING_ , hysteric-Stanley-brain screams at him.

 _Business._ Stanley smiles tightly and nods, not really listening to whatever the woman in front of him is saying. There’re three people in line behind her, and the rest are already out of the shop, milling around the tourist bus that takes them back to the central area of the town. He can handle three people.

As soon as this lady shuts up.

Anytime now.

She leaves eventually and Stan is very grateful the others aren’t quite as keen to make conversation as she was. He’s hit with another wave as he’s ringing up the last customer. He grunts.

She frowns at him in confusion.

“Bad Mexican,” he explains, and discreetly checks his watch. Eight-ish minutes now. What the fuck.

“Ah,” the woman says. She pats his arm in consolation. “Thank you for lasting the tour. You’re very brave.”

“Thanks, beautiful woman!”

She takes her bag from the counter and Stanley follows her out. The moment she’s out of the gift shop door Stanley shuts it, bolts it, flips the Open sign to Closed, and collapses against it heavily.

“Shit.” He’s panicking. He’s scared. He still needs to close down the rest of the house. He needs to get back to the room where all his supplies are. He doesn’t want to keep walking around anymore; he knows it’s going only to get worse from here on out. He really doesn’t want to have to go through this. “Shit, fuck, _ow_ , shit.”

He stays with his shoulder pressed against the door, breathing shallowly until the pains let up. He checks his watch again. Okay. Eight minutes, give or take. Shut and bolt the main door, draw all the curtains, grab water from the fridge, head upstairs to the room.        

He manages everything but the last one, having to stop midway up the steps. He sags against the wall and grips onto the bottle he has in his hands, and breathes harshly through his nose. This time, he doesn’t need the watch to know that the time lapse between this wave and the last one have gotten a lot closer than the ones preceding it.

It’s eleven forty in the morning.

x x x

The Murder Hut is quiet.

Stanley’s shut himself away in his room. The door’s been locked and the curtains drawn. There’s a yellow night light in the shape of a triangle turned on in the far corner of the room.

There’s an old metal fan, which Stanley turns on whenever it gets too hot during the summer, whirring noiselessly in a corner. It’s pointed slightly away from the bed.

The bed itself has been lined with bath towels and Stan’s curled in a corner on top of them, two or three pillows stacked near and under his head, with another clutched tightly in a bear hug. He’s got nothing but a long, over-sized shirt on and it’s sticking to him via the thin sheen of sweat that’s covered his body.

Something that Stanley’s learnt, from his years of getting picked on, bullied, beat up, and then some: it’s easier to be found if you made a noise. Stanley’s extremely loud by nature, boisterous, rowdy, but living on the run he’s picked up a number of lessons that’ve helped him get this far. It’d started off as a survival skill. Now, it’s second nature.

Pain meant danger and danger meant hiding. Hiding meant keeping quiet. He doesn’t need to hide now, of course - the house is practically his, so at least he has solace and privacy - but he’s in a terrible amount of pain, and it’s easier falling back on old coping methods.

He’s stopped counting the minutes and seconds between the pains. It doesn’t feel like there are any to count, anymore - it’s all melded and blended into one long continuous stream of agony that merely comes and goes in differing intensities. The only comfort he can take is knowing that there was an end to it. When, however, he isn’t sure. He feels shipwrecked - unable to do anything but ride wave after wave after wave of crashing pain and just hope those waves bring him close enough to see a shoreline that he can swim to. But there’s no shoreline yet. There hasn’t been one for hours. It’s getting harder to fight off the exhaustion.

 _It’s not gonna last forever._ He clenches his fists into the pillow, winds them into the casing and pants through the throbbing, insistent discomfort. The vice around his middle tightens relentlessly and he kicks out uselessly in a futile effort to dissipate it. _Get through it. You can do this._

He has to pep talk himself. It’s not like he has anyone else around to do it for him, hasn’t had anyone cheer him on since… what, high school? The last time anyone had encouraged him had been his Dad when he was in a boxing ring, and it’d really been more of a threat that he’d get beat if he didn’t win than a ‘good luck!’

The pressure finally lets up and Stanley isn’t able to stop himself from whimpering in relief. He casts a bleary glance at the handbook he’d brought up to the bed with him, eyes stinging with unshed tears and the burning heat behind his eyeballs. Apparently, he’s supposed to be “feeling the urge to push” now, whatever the fuck that meant. He hasn’t _felt_ anything besides pain. 

He’d tried pushing earlier even though he hadn’t felt like it but it’d felt wrong and made him nauseous, so he’d stopped. The books said it would take anywhere from eight to twelve hours before the pushing stage - it’s almost nine at night now. He’s nearly ready to give up.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s still hoping he can get this all over and done with before work starts tomorrow. He has to laugh. (He would, but he can’t.) There’s no way he’s going to be able to leave this room for at least another day. Thank _fuck_ he hadn’t told Town Hall to put the signs back up for -

Another contraction. He grits his teeth and tucks his head down to his chest and low growls his way through it, still curled up on his side, head pressed into the pillows. Fuck everything about this. He’s probably going to die and there’ll be no way to hide his body or explain the state it was discovered in -  

There’s a sudden warm wetness between his legs. He frowns. Fuck, was that…? Did he just piss himself? With the other - ?

He slams his head backwards into the pillows behind him as a new contraction literally knocks the breath out of him - it _HURTS_. Oh, and NOW his body decides to register wanting to push. He inhales whatever air his lungs will let him and instinctively bears down with the pressure for as long as he can hold it. Jesus! Fuck! And he’d thought the last nine hours were bad.

He gasps like he’s just resurfaced from being held under to the point of suffocation, pants loudly, pulls in another quick, deep breath and pushes again. Oh, thank fucking god, he’s _finally_ making progress. He’s finally doing _something_. He feels the baby shifting inside him, moving downwards and out as his belly squeezes, top to bottom, and he pushes hard along with it. Down, down, down. It’s nearly a mantra. He clutches at the pillow for dear life, his legs spread apart, and digs his heels into the towels beneath him as he strains to bring his baby out.

 _Push. Down and out._ It feels like it’s another hour before he feels it slip lower and lower inside of him, big and heavy, and one of his hands releases the death grip on the pillow to fumble between his legs. It’s just beginning to emerge and he cries out a little as he feels himself open up for it, stretching around it. It hurts, it fucking _hurts_. He growls his way through another contraction and keeps bearing down past the searing pain until his fingers touch something that isn’t him. A head!

Except… it doesn’t feel like a head. Stanley stops pushing to pant, confused. He tries feeling around a bit more, but he’s unable to discern what he’s touching. He can’t see past his stomach still. Fuck it. He tucks his head down and pushes again, just hard enough to bring a bit more of the baby out, and when he grasps around for it again he recognizes what it is and his blood stops cold.

It’s not a head. It’s a foot.

Up until now he’d been keeping from going into full blown panic by recalling the things he’d read. _Labor takes time_ \- it wasn’t going to last forever. _Labor hurts_ \- pain wasn’t new, he could deal with it.

All the books he’d read had only one thing to say about babies that were born the wrong way - stop pushing, and get to a hospital. Immediately.

He had not considered this a possible outcome. At all.

He doesn’t know what to do.

_He doesn’t know what to do!_

The terror swells in his chest and finally explodes. Stanley starts making distressed, ragged noises that don’t sound like they’re coming from him, but rather some fatally wounded creature.

His baby is dying. It has to be. Right? Why else would it coming out the wrong -

The pain slams into him again without warning and Stanley gives a short cry, curling into the pillows. His body isn’t giving any fucks about his emotional predicament, it seems. He flails and unwittingly screams as he’s dragged through the harsh, unforgiving turbulence of the contraction and when he finally comes back to consciousness it’s because he realizes that he’s still holding his baby’s foot, the baby that’s still inside of him, in his hand.

He has to act fast. Stanley drags himself up and over to the edge of the bed. He hastily pulls some towels down onto the floor and clumsily brings himself to kneel over them, sitting partially on his haunches. He needs to get it out. _Now_. He doesn’t know what’s wrong exactly but the books had said this was a Bad Thing and the longer the baby stays in the Bad Thing the more it can’t be good. Right?

He doesn’t know.

When the next one hits he’s ready for it. Stanley grips the edge of the bed with one hand and pushes down as hard as he can into the other hand between his spread knees. More of the baby slips down slowly, along with a mixture of blood and fluids that he really doesn’t want to think about, and he keeps bearing down until the entirety of the rest of the leg is delivered. It dangles out of him awkwardly, limply, the remainder of the baby nowhere in sight.

He’s breathing too loudly now, shrill, frightened sounds. Stan pushes again, blindly. The burning sensation increases and he start-stops in his efforts several times simply because it hurts too much. He touches the baby’s leg again, follows it up to where it’s still stuck inside of him. He _has_ to deliver the other leg and the rest of its body. It’s going to be a lot wider than the leg that’s already out of him and oh _fuck_ , he _still_ needs to deliver the head after that.

The next few contractions go by in a blur. He buries his head into the crook of the arm that’s fisted into the sheets of the bed and the room is filled with unnerving silences only broken by periodic, desperate pants. Eventually though, gravity does its job. He gives a sobbing shout as he works the shoulders out and the baby’s other leg finally drops out of him.

“ _Come on_.” He doesn’t know who he’s begging: himself, his body, or the baby. He’s shaking. “Come on, come _on_ , you son of a _bitch_ , come on - ”

He tries to bear down again but he’s too tired. Afraid. He can’t. His body keeps working without him regardless, but it’s not enough.

“ _Ford_ ,” Stanley chokes out, _please, I need you._

He’s alone.

Stanley takes several shuddering breaths. He re-winds his fingers into the bedspread and tries to pretend he’s gripping a six-fingered hand.

He breathes shakily, in and out, in and out, until he feels that familiar surge tightening around his abdomen. He sucks in a deep breath, spreads his knees and bears down with as much strength as he can muster, nearly roaring with effort from it as he squeezes Ford’s hand. He feels himself stretch and burn wider than he can possibly handle - and then it’s over, his baby tumbling into his waiting hand and onto the soft towels beneath him.     

Stan nearly collapses, shifting back onto his heels so he can reach down with both hands. There’s blood - is there supposed to be that much blood? He doesn’t know, _he doesn’t know_ \- he lifts the baby up and its face is purple. Its eyes are scrunched closed. Its mouth is open but it isn’t crying.

“Hey.” Stan grabs one of the towels off of the floor and covers it up with it, pulls the limp infant to his chest. His heart is pounding. He feels light-headed. “Hey. Hey, you. Hi.”

He’s rocking on his knees on the floor, the silent, unmoving baby pressed against his chest where his heart continues to thunder. Rocking. It’s supposed to help babies sleep. Right?

The baby still isn’t crying.

“My god, you sure took your time. Didn’t think you’d ever get here.”

He is actually going to faint. He can feel his vision going black at the edges and so he tries to lie down, tries to maneuver himself onto the floor without jostling the baby or the cord that’s still keeping them attached.

The Murder Hut is quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Stan blurts out. He starts crying. _He doesn’t know_ why. “I’m _sorry_ , I - ”

x x x

When he opens his eyes it’s still dark, save for the distant glow of the night light. He can’t have been out for more than an hour at the most.

‘Everything hurts’ is a really…  _really_ massive understatement.

He lowers his head and tries very hard not to fall apart. It takes a while before he registers that something - no, some _one_ else - is gazing back at him in the dim lighting.

“Oh!” He stares down, in shock and disbelief. He blinks rapidly to make sure he isn’t dreaming, and it blinks calmly back. “ _Oh, my god._ Hey… _Hey_.”

He pulls it closer towards him. He rubs its back through the towels. It flails a little against him, its movements uncoordinated, still quiet, still alive.

x x x

He finds that he’s able to move - _somehow_ , despite everything he’d just endured - so he cleans both of them up (eurgh, afterbirth is disgusting), puts the baby somewhere it won’t roll off and disappear on him, then limps to the kitchen and immediately downs an entire can of beer.

He re-boils the water and measures out a bottle of powdered milk. Tests it against his wrist to see if it’s too hot to drink. Silently thanks Shermie for existing and for letting him have some much needed experience with taking care of babies.  

He slowly ascends the stairs to his room again - _stupid move, should have brought the baby down with him instead_ \- quietly picks the baby up and settles it in the crook of his arm. He offers it the bottle and it latches on right away.

It. He’s still calling it ‘It’. ‘It’ is technically a girl. ‘It’ is not getting a name because once he names it, he’s going to get attached to it, and now that It has been born he needs to consider the other part of The-Fuck-Do-I-Do-Now.  

He has two things on his updated To-Do List. The first is, as always, “Bring Ford Back”. He doesn’t know when he’ll ever achieve the first goal. If he’ll ever achieve it. Maybe he’ll die before he does. Maybe he’ll bring Ford back within a year. Five years. Ten. Thirty. Never.

The second is, “Don’t Become Like Dad.”

He’s already fucked up enough. He doesn’t want to have to ruin her - _its_ \- life, too.

He thinks about the coded message he’s going to have to tuck into her clothing when he leaves her at the police station. He thinks about whether they’d keep in contact, if she wants to keep in contact. He thinks about running the Hut with a baby strapped to his chest. He thinks about having to tell her one day about a father who would never return.

He thinks about Ford coming home to a family.

He wonders if he can live the rest of his life pretending he’d never gone through any of this.  

The baby stops drinking, gurgling slightly as she moves her head away. Stan sets the bottle aside, pulls a towel over his shoulder and gently pats her back as he rocks them both to an unheard tune in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> (Not that I would recommend it, but technically there's nothing wrong with natural breech births. There're complications, of course, as there are with any other kind of pregnancy and birth situations - but breech births do run the higher risks of: the baby not getting enough oxygen should the umbilical cord prolapse, or from getting squeezed during delivery before the baby has been delivered; the baby's head getting stuck during delivery, etc. I just wrote it this way because drama, lulz)


End file.
